


Then Hit Him With The Jab Like-

by annie_reckson



Series: fight me. [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV), teen wolf - Fandom
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, MMA!AU, Trans!Stiles, fighters!au, sassy little shits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-12 00:43:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5647678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annie_reckson/pseuds/annie_reckson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even if he has a begrudging respect for the guy, Jackson still doesn’t understand why Stiles Stilinski insists on being so outlandish with everything. Jackson feels like if he were in his position, with his background, he’d be trying to stay as under-the-radar as possible. Then again, Jackson has always preferred a more nonchalant, stand-offish attitude towards it all. He's never understood the point in indulging the masses by drawing all sorts of attention to yourself.</p><p>-</p><p>An MMA fighter AU featuring trans!Stiles and 100% inspired by some disheartening comments made about UFC Fighter Fallon Fox</p>
            </blockquote>





	Then Hit Him With The Jab Like-

**Author's Note:**

> Eternal thanks to [alex](http://archiveofourown.org/users/alexenglish/pseuds/alexenglish) for being so amazing and taking the time to beta this for me!

It’s become a routine at this point, and Jackson will always whine and say that it’s essential for his training, but it’s really just an excuse to actually get to spend time with his best friend. He knows that Danny knows this. He loves that Danny never admits it.

Instead, Danny makes this absolutely amazing spicy popcorn (he refuses to share the recipe, probably his only flaw) and sits on Jackson’s too-firm, too-expensive couch to watch videos of Jackson’s upcoming opponent with him. Really, Jackson could do this on his own, but Danny always provides excellent commentary, which Jackson appreciates more than he’d like to admit.

“He’s crazy-quick on his feet,” Danny offers, taking a sip of some local IPA Jackson bought, he's always preferred them as bitter and hoppy as possible; this one is his favorite.

Jackson nods, “Yeah, I heard his original training is in jiu jitsu.”

“I can tell, puts those nice, long limbs to use.”

“Really?” Jackson rolls his eyes, “I need you to be objective, not objectifying.”

The ring of the bell signals the end of the match, the referee holding one of Stiles’s pale arms in the air while Stiles removes his mouthguard and gives a ridiculous grin to the camera. Jackson tries not to notice the sweat running down his chest, past pale pink lines that are barely noticeable amid all the tattoos on his skin, and instead focuses on how Stiles barely seems to be out of breath.

“Fine, take away the fun,” Danny squints and pulls another sip of beer, “The jiu jitsu is kinda obvious, and very smart, considering he’s probably not going to be as strong as most of his opponents.”

“Huh,” Jackson cocks an eyebrow as he presses play on the next match, “I didn’t consider that, but it makes sense.”

“Are you worried?”

Jackson sighs, “I’m never worried. And always worried.”

“He is faster than you, probably better at holds,” Danny narrows his eyes, “You’re stronger, but he’s still pretty strong.”

“Yeah, you’d have no idea he used to be a -”

“It’d probably be best if you didn’t finish that sentence.”

“What! I’m not calling him a woman or anything, just pointing out that -”

“There’s nothing to point out, Jackson. He’s a guy. He’s currently on a 5-match winning streak. You’d be better off focusing on his technique, rather than his past, or you’ll end up being Win Number Six.”

Jackson snarls, “Aren’t you supposed to be my best friend?”

“Which is why I want you to be your best. Obviously. You won’t be if you’re focused on Stiles’s personal life rather than how easily he just pulled that dude down with a half-nelson.”

“Okay, okay,” Jackson rubs a hand down his face, “So what do I do if he pulls some shit at the weigh-in tomorrow?”

Even if he has a begrudging respect for the guy, Jackson still doesn’t understand why Stiles Stilinski insists on being so _outlandish_ with everything. Jackson feels like if he were in his position, with his background, he’d be trying to stay as under-the-radar as possible. Then again, Jackson has always preferred a more nonchalant, stand-offish attitude towards it all. He's never understood the point in indulging the masses by drawing all sorts of attention to yourself.

Yet, Stiles is in the public eye as much as possible, infamous nearly as much for his snark in interviews as his skill in winning matches. Although, he keeps getting invited to fewer and fewer daytime talk shows since they’ve figured out that he doesn’t “play nice” when it comes to ignorant lines of questioning. One host even banned him when he countered her line of questioning about his genitals by asking her about her own. Funny, what it takes for people to realize how inappropriate they’re being.

Not that Stiles’ attitude ever dampens in the slightest, from what Jackson has seen. From the day he started fighting professionally, as opposed to the smaller circuits, he’s been in the public eye. Not surprisingly, the LGBT+ community embraced him almost immediately, putting him on at least five separate magazine covers in the span of a few months; not even Danny got that kind of coverage when he’d come out publicly a few years ago.

Jackson still remembers the photo that had graced Advocate - [a simple profile shot](http://dylanobrien.org/wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2015/10/006-225x300.jpg) of Stiles in a leather hoodie with a tiny smile on his face, scruff barely visible. The first thing Jackson noticed was the playful mirth in Stiles’s eyes, like there was a private joke stuck in his head and he was desperately trying not to think about it. There’s a pretty good chance that Jackson has a copy stashed somewhere.

Not everyone took him seriously at first; Jackson and Danny had sat side by side on his couch, eating popcorn and cringing as they scrolled through Twitter together. That changed when Stiles started decisively winning matches. It’s hard to doubt someone’s ability when they’re taking down fighters left and right. By now, nearly everyone has climbed aboard the Stiles Stilinski Bandwagon, with the more liberal major media outlets covering him in near-reverent tones.

So yeah, Jackson can see why Stiles has a reason to act so cocky. It doesn’t mean he likes it.

“What makes you think he’ll pull something?” Danny asks, almost like he’s toying with him.

Jackson scoffs, “Because he _always_ does these days. Remember when he booped Boyd on the nose during their weigh-in?”

“I kinda liked it when he took the selfie with Isaac during their weigh-in,” Danny chuckles, “Even better when he actually posted the picture on his Instagram.”

“That’s because you love the constipated face Isaac was making.”

Danny grins, “Saved it as the background on my phone for weeks.”

“I remember,” Jackson rolls his eyes, “Seriously though, he’s going to try and psyche me out. I can feel it.”

“Well, you are the biggest opponent he’s faced so far, it’d make sense for him to try and throw you off.”

“So what do I _do?_ ”

Danny shrugs, “Go along with it.”

“... You’re serious?”

“Everyone knows that fighters only do and say shit at the weigh-ins to try to fuck with their opponent. Just go along with whatever he does. If he tries to take a selfie, then lean into it and smile. If he tries to get you to twerk with him, put those white-boy moves to work.”

“That’s really your best advice?”

“That’s the best advice you’re getting. You should also  make sure to keep his arms in check at all times during the fight, those things are _spindly_.”

Jackson nods, “Anything else?”

Danny tilts his head, “Ask him if he’s single.”

Jackson pushes him off the couch.

 

***

 

Cameras are already starting to flash all around him when Jackson steps out of the curtain towards the officiant. Weigh-ins are probably his least favorite aspect of the whole thing. Clad in nothing but tight, shiny trunks and surrounded by people whose faces he can’t see because of the bright lights everywhere, he can’t help but feel overexposed and underdressed. It’s different when he’s actually fighting, in motion, and focused singularly on his opponent. It’s okay to feel the weight of people’s gaze on him then, when he’s firmly in his element and not being paraded around on display.

For the first part of his entrance, Lydia is beside him, a firm hand on his back guiding him in the right direction. There’s a line on the ground that photographers have to stay behind and Lydia has to leave him there, crossing her arms and taking her place amongst the onlookers. There’s always a minutiae of a shiver down his back when he loses the contact, that he hopes no one ever notices.

As always, there’s a decided smirk on his face as he tries to make eye contact with as few of the photographers as possible. They become a blur of shapes and flashes, enough for him to comfortably place one foot in front of the other towards the referee without feeling too nauseous.

Stiles, however, is already grinning as he makes his way to the center of the room, jogging most of the way there. It’s embarrassing how much self-control Jackson musters up to keep the put-upon smirk on his face and his eyes on the officiant, rather than Stiles’s bouncing ass. Danny would probably be ashamed of him, but they’re both aware that Jackson’s rigorously imposed self-control is one of the factors that has him ranked five spots _above_ Danny.

When they step closer, as instructed, Jackson is almost jealous of how relaxed Stiles looks, completely at ease with the entire situation. Jackson is still too worried about Stiles doing something stupid for him to be anything but tense. He tries looking straight into Stiles’s eyes, hoping there’ll be a clue or some indication of intent, but he only finds a twinkling playfulness staring back at him. It doesn’t exactly put him at ease.

Finally, they step closer again, noses nearly touching, and the voice of the officiant becomes a low buzz in Jackson’s ear. There’s a slight thrum that’s growing under his skin, he can practically feel it crawling across his arms and legs, and all he wants to do is get out of this situation. He attempts to calm himself by counting down in his head, willing all of this to be over as soon as possible.

 

_10..._

_9..._

_8..._

_7..._

_6..._

_5..._

_4..._

 

He stumbles slightly backwards when Stiles leans forward, closing the infinitesimal distance between them and pressing their lips together. For a second, Jackson’s successfully caught off-guard. Then, he realizes that _this_ is Stiles trying to unsettle him, something Jackson is not about to let happen.

Instead of backing away, Jackson pushes back into the kiss, reaching up to cup the back of Stiles’s head and letting his tongue flick against the seam of Stiles’s lips. The buzz in his ears quits. All he can focus on are the points of contact between him and the man pressed against him. Palm against the neck, sides of their noses, chests, nipples, abdomens, hipbones. He tilts forward one last time, lets his teeth drag against Stiles’s bottom lip as he pulls back.

There are more camera flashes than ever, Jackson knows he has to play the next moment perfectly. As he steps away, back to the safety of Lydia, he grins at Stiles and arrogantly gives him a wink before turning away completely. Jackson sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, chooses to ignore how bright pink and flushed all over Stiles still looks.

Lydia has her hand on his bicep in an instant, nails digging into his skin, other hand furiously tapping on her phone. For a moment, he's confused. Her grip suggests that he just did something wrong, but the reaction of everyone else seems overwhelmingly positive, especially from Stiles.  When they get into an elevator, Jackson uses his unencumbered arm to brush his fingers lightly across his lips, less subconsciously then he'll ever admit.

“So, that was something,” Lydia breaks her silence with a huff, eyes still on her phone.

“You're acting like I messed up. We both know he was just doing it to throw me off, and all the little media people out there seemed to love it.” He gives her a charming grin, hoping it'll be enough to get her to loosen the death grip on his arm.

“Sure, it definitely could have gone worse. I'm not exactly keen to be the manager of the UFC fighter who decks Stiles Stilinski, but I don't think you realize all the extra work you just put on both of us.”

Jackson raises an eyebrow, “Like what?”

Lydia tilts her phone towards him, “You're already a trending hashtag on twitter. Well, the kiss is anyway.”

“The kiss? How is that a hashtag?”

“Somebody came up with the idea to call it ‘#StacksonSmooch’ and people are running with it.”

“Stackson?” He lets the derision drip, liberally.

Lydia rolls her eyes, “It's a portmanteau, Jackson. You know how people love those.”

“Whatever. Is that it?”

“Hardly,” She finally releases his arm and taps over to her emails, “So far, I've heard from four sports radio hosts and three ESPN shows that want to have you on. That's just in the last two and a half minutes.”

“You know I'm not doing them.”

“Jackson Francis Whittemore,” Lydia grits her teeth, “How long are you going to act like any sort of publicity is beneath you?”

He hates this conversation, and they have it far too often, “We both know that I'm the best at what I do, it's not even a question. My publicity consists of going out there and ruining my opponent.  No amount of mindless small talk, in an uncomfortable suit, is going to be more productive than that.”

“You'd be wise to consider-”

“Drop it Lyds, it's not going to happen,” the elevator dings and Jackson can feel his shoulders start to tense up again, “If I remain silent about the whole thing, rather than trying to milk it, people will be curious and want to watch the fight. It'll be better in the long run.”

Lydia sighs and rubs her eyes as they walk down the dank corridor to the locker rooms, “You're insufferable.”

“I'm the easiest client you have and you know it.”

“You’re easily the least charming, if that's what you mean.”

“You don’t need to be charming when you’re this talented.” He gratuitously points to himself and gives Lydia a cheesy grin before opening the locker room door.

“Hey,” Lydia grabs his forearm, lighter this time, “Just promise me that you’ll think about it? Even just one interview would do a lot for your public image. Like it or not, people are interested about your personal life now.”

Jackson crinkles his nose, but Lydia has always been difficult to dismiss outright, “Alright, I’ll _think_ about it, but this doesn’t mean you get to sic Danny on me to try and sway my decision.”

Lydia smiles before letting him go, “I’ll expect you to call me later, then.”

“If I don’t, I’m sure Danny will,” He grumbles, more to himself than to her, before shutting the door.

He strips quickly, more than ready to be rid of the tight, shiny shorts clinging to his ass cheeks and the smelly oil covering his torso and thighs. Luckily, the locker room itself is empty so he’s able to shower in peace, letting the water run as hot as he likes it without someone in the next stall complaining.

For the briefest of moments, when he’s lathering up his body with his expensive sea sponge, he lets his mind wander back to the impromptu kiss. He’s sure there will be people who will think it’s all a publicity stunt to hype their event, but the feeling against his lips confirms to him how unplanned it had been. While Stilinski’s move had been a surprise, how soft and nice his lips were, hadn’t been; although, Jackson could have guessed that just from looking at him.

Not that he’s stared at Stilinski’s mouth... much.

He almost regrets letting the whole thing end before he even really got started. It’s not his usual technique. Jackson likes to take his time, really make sure his chosen partner knows that his focus is all on them. He wants them to realize that he is actually as good as he looks.

Part of him wonders if Stiles would like that, if he would have let Jackson continue or if he would have stopped him, pushing him away and wiping his mouth and chiding him for taking a joke too far. Jackson’s hand slides down the slick skin of his hips as he wonders what would happen if he tried it again. If it would be even better in private, without cameras, without an audience.

His thoughts are interrupted by the door to the locker room slamming. There’s a one-sided conversation going on, so Jackson assumes they’re alone. He hopes so, as he rinses off quickly and turns the water off. The person comes closer while he’s wrapping his towel around his waist, and Jackson groans when he realizes that he recognizes this guy. Really, the voice should have been a giveaway.

Not even fifteen feet away from him is Scott McCall, best friend and partner-in-crime to Stiles, not to mention a talented fighter in his own regard. He’s wearing the stupid shirt that he and 

Stiles designed for a charity last spring; it’s got the silhouette of a bodybuilder flexing with the words, ‘ _MACHO? Check. MAN? Yes. SAVAGE? Oh yeah. RANDY? Definitely.’_ written on it.

Danny has one, of course, in a V-neck. Jackson’s pretty sure Lydia bought him one, although it’s probably hidden back in his closet. He notices that Scott’s taken the liberty of cutting the sleeves and most of the sides off, shamelessly displaying his chest and abdomen.

When Scott sees him, he immediately grins, and ends the conversation with whomever is on the other end of his call. To Jackson’s dismay, Scott puts his phone away and hurries over to him, gym bag still slung over his shoulder, as if he’s completely unaware of locker room etiquette. Especially considering Jackson is, for all intents and purposes, completely naked. Jackson grips his towel harder and shifts his weight, trying to mask how uncomfortable the situation is making him.

If Scott notices, he ignores it, “Jackson! Hey! Long time no see, man.” He sets his bag on the bench behind him.

“You say that as if we’re buddies that would see each other often,” Jackson opens his locker to hide the tremor in his voice.

Scott’s grin doesn’t falter, “I mean, you and Danny are always welcome to come hang out at our place, we just installed a new pool. It’s got one of those saltwater filters so you don’t have to use chlorine!”

“That’s... really great for you, I guess,” Jackson furrows his brows in annoyance as he searches for suitable clothes in his locker.

“Look, sorry, I’m getting ahead of myself,” Scott reaches a hand out and places it on the curve of Jackson’s shoulder, “I was actually hoping I’d see you, so I could tell you that what you did out there was really cool.”

Jackson scoffs, “You’re thanking me for not punching your friend in the face?” He rolls his shoulder to get Scott to release.

“Well, yeah, actually,” Scott’s eyebrows go up, “I kept telling Stiles it was a bad idea, definitely not something you just spring on someone, but he wouldn’t listen, y’know? He’s... a little stubborn, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Already tired of being cornered and stuck in this conversation, with no sign that McCall is going to leave anytime soon, Jackson finally loosens his towel and folds it on the bench. There’s a sharp intake of breathe from beside him, but Jackson’s been used to that ever since he hit puberty. He pulls a pair of loose running shorts on before it gets awkward.

“I’m pretty sure,” Jackson teases, as he pulls a tank top on, “That everyone in this country is familiar with most of the nuances of Stilinski’s behavior.” He smirks inwardly, because Lydia would be far too proud of that sentence.

“What are you trying to say?” Scott’s mood seems to shift for the first time in their conversation.

“Look, your pal does a great job of promoting himself and I can appreciate that,” Jackson props a pair of sunglasses on top of his head and grabs his bag to head out, “I also appreciate what you’re saying, but it doesn’t change the fact that your buddy tried to intimidate me and he failed,” Jackson grins.

“I mean, yeah, if you wanna see it that way, but -”

Jackson steps around him and heads out, “Tell Stilinski that I’m eagerly anticipating our match.”

“Hey, wait -” Scott starts.

The door to the locker room slams shut behind Jackson, drowning out the rest of McCall’s response. Which is fine, really, because it allows Jackson to have the last word, which is probably his favorite thing. Besides, there’s not much McCall can say that would have swayed Jackson’s opinion on the matter.

In his mind, the circumstance is settled: Stilinski, a media darling who loves attention, makes an attempt to unsettle Jackson right before their match and fails. Jackson can’t fault him for trying, but that doesn’t mean he’s forced to fall for the ruse. He anticipated the attack, turned it around to his own advantage, and won.

Now all he has to do is the exact same thing at their match in two days.  

Easy.

 

***

 

“... I don't know man, seems like you were kinda rude.”

Jackson backs away from the punching bag and gapes at Danny with furrowed eyebrows. He’s panting a little bit, not enough to warrant a break yet, but enough to feel the burn in his upper arms and shoulders. Danny’s been keeping him company in the small gym for the past hour or so, although Jackson’s only recently brought up the encounter with McCall.

“What _exactly_ would you have had me do?” Jackson asks, with a sneer as he uses a wrapped hand to wipe sweaty strands of hair away from his eyes.

Danny shrugs from his spot on the weight bench, “I don’t know, I wasn’t there. I just think you probably could have handled the whole thing better. There’s a lot of positivity coming your way, you shouldn’t ruin it by being a dick.”

“Everything I have, everything I am,” Jackson pivots and hits the bag with his right fist, “is because I’m a dick.”

“Huh, did someone say ‘dicks’?”

They both turn their heads in sync towards the swinging doors, just as Stiles and Scott walk through them. Stiles is wearing a grin so large that Jackson is almost certain he can see all of his teeth. It takes him a second to notice that he’s also wearing a tank top in garish neon swirled colors (similarly slashed-up like Scott’s, so Jackson assumes it’s something they do together) and loose basketball shorts.

Seeing them side by side like this also makes him realize that they have what looks like matching tattoos on their upper arms. Scott’s is plain black, but Stiles’s tattoo has bands that alternate between light blue and pink. It’s almost cute.

Jackson shakes out his shoulders, “You two must be lost, there’s no beer pong here. But, I’m sure if you hurry to the corner store, you can probably still grab some... What is that canned piss called, Danny? Oh yeah, Keystone.” Jackson smirks and runs a hand through his hair, “Probably be to that house party in no time. By now you’ve missed the wet t-shirt contest, but you should be just in time for some sad freshman playing ‘Wonderwall’ on an out of tune guitar.”

“Hey Jackson, there’s no need -” Danny starts

“It’s cool, Danny, right?” Stiles winks in Danny’s direction and Jackson can feel his face heating up, “Mahealani? I’m sure you hear this a lot, but you’re just as good-looking in person as you are on your magazine covers.”

Danny, of course, smiles right back, “Yeah, I do hear that a lot.”

As they step closer, Jackson notices that the whites of their eyes are tinted like cotton candy, then he gets a wave of their scent in his direction and nearly gags. The smell takes him back to his freshman year in high school, when he would occasionally walk by groups of other students - usually the kind that favored oversized plaid shirts and overly-tight jeans - smoking behind the bleachers when he was trying to run laps before lacrosse practice. Even then, he only partook at parties, to mellow himself out enough that interacting with numerous, forgetful people wasn’t so much of a chore. He still doesn’t understand the appeal of doing it recreationally.

Obviously these two do. “Look, we’re actually kind of in the middle of something here,” Jackson starts, “So it would be great if you gu -”

“Hey man,” Stiles grins and squints his bubblegum-hued eyes at him. “We’re just here to talk. Just for a little bit.”

Danny crosses his arms, “Can’t imagine what you’d need to get back to.”

Stiles spurts and giggles, “Oh my God, Scott, I like this guy, this guy is great. Why haven’t we hung out with him before?”

Scott nudges him, “Dude, I told you! I’ve been telling you for like, months now.”

“You two do realize that we can, actually, hear you right?” Jackson sighs out.

“Why’d you stop them?” Danny teases, “I liked where they were heading.”

“Where they should be heading is back out the door they came in.”

“Whoa,” Stiles puts his hands up. “You two do realize that, like, we can actually _hear_ you, right?”

An annoyed look is all Jackson gives him as a reply.

So Stiles continues, “What are you here training for anyway? Aren’t you ‘the greatest’? ‘So great he never has to do an interview, ever’? Mr ‘My Work Speaks For Itself’?”

“Not all of us require constant attention to survive, Tinkerbell,” Jackson spits out.

“Excuse me?” Scott steps forward and snarls, “Was that a -”

“Calm down, Scotty,” Stiles slaps a hand across his chest and leans in to explain the reference to him, which is apparently enough for him to back down.

While Jackson watches, Stiles whispers some more in Scott’s ear - occasionally casting a playful glance in Jackson’s direction - and whatever it is seems to lighten his mood considerably. Scott even hums and chuckles near the end, while Jackson stands dumbfounded. His gaze is mostly on the soft touches they seem to mindlessly share with each other, that make him question, not for the first time, what the state of their relationship is anyway. He gets his answer, sort of, when Scott pulls away and immediately sets his sights on Danny.

“So, Danny,” Scott steps closer to him him with a smile, “I haven’t seen you a really long time, how have you been?”

Danny smirks, “Well, I’m pretty sure the _only_ time we’ve seen each other is when you beat me by power slamming me to the mat. I’ve been great since then.”

“Ah yeah, well, it seemed like a good idea at the time, y’know? I had no idea it was going to knock all the wind out of you.”

“It’s cool man, all part of the gig, right? No harm no foul.”

“Well uh, if it’s alright with you, I wouldn’t mind taking your breath away again.”

The groan coming from Jackson’s throat is matched by the one coming from Stiles behind him, and he nearly breaks his neck whipping around when Jackson hears it. He sees Stiles shake his head and run a hand down his face. Jackson narrows his eyes, even more so when Stiles shifts his gaze to look at him, smiles, then shrugs as if this moment is one they’re sharing together.

Danny, for his part, sighs but doesn’t appear to be completely put-out, “Maybe another time,” He gestures back to the weight bench. “But you’re more than welcome to spot me while I finish up.”

This time, Jackson tries not to groan outwardly, but that doesn’t stop his eyes from nearly rolling into the back of his head. He huffs, just about to say something when he feels a hand on his shoulder, drawing his attention back to Stiles. Who is smirking at him, close enough for Jackson to smell how high he really is.

“Yeah sorry, I think Scott’s just always like that,” Stiles shrugs.

“Is that why you guys are here? So your best friend can hit on my best friend?”

“Uh, not exactly, to be honest. Just a bonus for Scotty.”

“Right,” Jackson crosses his arms. “Enlighten me then. What brings you two ‘bros’ here dressed like you just left Panama City Beach and smelling as loud as possible?”

Stiles sighs, “Now that I’m actually here, I’m not sure I wanna tell you,” He runs a hand down his face, “Whatever, fuck it, I guess. I’ve come this far, right? Anyways, I’m sure you remember earlier today.”

“You mean?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Oh, that. Yeah, I remember. We’re apparently a hashtag now.”

“Hilarious, right? Well,” Stiles chews on his bottom lip, “For being as short as it was, it was actually pretty good. Really nice. And I was kinda hoping I could... persuade you to let it happen again. Which is why we’re here.”

“Huh, so it’s true then.”

Stiles raises an eyebrow, “What’s true?”

Jackson smirks, “Turns out I really am everybody’s type.”

“Jesus, dude,” Stiles rolls his eyes.

“No no no, let me make sure I understand this, you’re standing in this gym because you enjoyed kissing me,” Jackson cocks his head to the side, “yet not enough that you could come here completely sober.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, “Which brings me to the next part. After your little,” he waggles his fingers, “Conversation with Scott earlier today, he wasn’t feeling too strongly about how receptive you’d be to me showing up. Obviously that made me crazy stressed and paranoid about the whole situation. But I wanted to come anyway, y’know? Sure, there are probably better things I could be doing, but I wanted to at least say that I tried. So we dipped into some Tangerine Diesel that we had put back for after the match tomorrow. We may have smoked a tad bit too much of it out of, like, anxiety. Or whatever.”

“You were that nervous about coming to see me?”

Stiles shrugs and rubs the back of his neck, “I dunno, kinda, yeah.”

“That's funny, because I was under the impression that you ‘didn't give a fuck’. ‘Who cares what people say about me because I know my worth’. Mr ‘This is me and I could give a fuck less what anyone else thinks’?”

Stiles grins, and Jackson realizes that he's gotten really close, but he finds himself not really minding,  “That's me, I guess.”

Jackson lets his gaze stray down Stiles’s lean torso before travelling back up to his dazed eyes, “I have to admit, it’s a little bit hot.”

“Oh really?”

“Don’t start fishing, Stilinski.”

“Not fishing, just,” Stiles takes a half-step closer and Jackson can feel his breath when he speaks, “Trying to wrap my head around the fact that you think I’m hot.”

When he searches through his brain and fails to find a convincing reason not to, Jackson finally takes the final step and closes the distance between them. He tilts his head and meets Stiles’s lips gently, slowly, the opposite of their forceful, rushed kiss from earlier. This time, Jackson wants to make sure that it’s more his style, and maybe nice enough that he can leave Stiles wanting more.

Stiles has his nails digging into Jackson’s scalp, a clear sign that he’s doing well so far. He still keeps their touches light, sticking to slight brushes of lip and only letting his tongue dip the slightest bit into Stiles’s mouth. To his surprise, Stiles’s tastes… really good. Obviously there’s a grassy taste, but there’s also hints of apples and sweetness, making it difficult for Jackson to resist diving in. He tries to focus, keeping himself grounded by tracing his thumbs against Stiles’s abdominal muscles.

Despite his controlled efforts, their interaction becomes more heated. Jackson finds that he’s not that upset when Stiles sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, and runs his fingers underneath Jackson’s shirt. He’s even less put-out when Stiles starts making these amazingly needy noises, like he doesn’t even care that Scott and Danny are within earshot, and probably eyeshot, of them. Their lips, now slick with their combined spit, slide and press against the other in a way that makes Jackson entire body feel heated.

Then, it happens. Stiles hands slip down to Jackson’s waist and pull their hips flush together. Jackson feels something thick and solid pressing against him and he lets out a groan that rumbles in his belly. Without hesitation, he reaches down to palm against Stiles’s shorts and Stiles steps back.

“Whoa there buddy, calm down a bit, maybe,” Stiles wiggles his eyebrows, “We are still in public after all.”

“Oh, right,” Jackson laughs dryly, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to get... so carried away. I, uh, I’m usually not like that.

“It’s alright, you shouldn’t apologize. Given other circumstances, I might even be in favor of it.”

“So,” He licks his lips, “I’m guessing I lived up to your expectations?”

“I believe your work speaks for itself,” Stiles winks at him. “See you tomorrow.”

Jackson starts to protest, but the words get caught in his throat, a combination of his ridiculous pride, and the sight of Stiles’s ass in his gym shorts as he’s walking away. Scott follows him shortly afterward, wearing a cheesy grin and giving Jackson a thumbs-up before walking out the door.

He’s not entirely sure how he’s going to fare in the match tomorrow, because he already feels like he’s been punched in the chest. It doesn’t hurt as bad as he remembers.


End file.
